


Tapcaf To Go

by Izzerslololol



Series: Mereel and the Galaxy [4]
Category: Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherhood, Brothers, Clones, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Mando'a, huttese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-24
Updated: 2008-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:30:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzerslololol/pseuds/Izzerslololol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles revolving around ARC N-7. (For more information see <a href="http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Mereel_Skirata">wiki entry</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3am

**Author's Note:**

> Collating all the old pieces together to a more visible, easier to manage, location.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prevention of mission hindrance takes top priority.

Access Granted.  
Welcome back N-7, You Impossibly Attractive _Mir’sheb_.  
Input Search Inquiry.  
Searching . . .  
Personal Journal Entry Found.  
Modify?  
Input Authorization Access Code.  
Confirm?  
Modification Granted.

\- - - - -  
  


 **13:00**  
Met with contact for lunch at a cozy little tapcaf. All bases covered. Plan A moving forward according to schedule.

 **14:00**  
Some unscheduled activity recorded at Bank Munich. Location previously labeled as central location for Separatist Supporters’ and Government officials’ preferred depository of public funding. Further observation required.

 **16:00**  
Sliced into the main dataframe via stolen datapad and hydrospanner. Anonymous tip: “Mynock’s outta the bag. Party’s tonight, bring one friend.”  
Seems they know I’m coming.  
Cancel Plan A.

 **20:00**  
Last hardware series check before party crashing.  
Everything’s green…

 **21:00**  
Government funds drained and transferred through series of accounts under one popular Mayor’s name. Four million credits forwarded to local Mob’s selected politician – untraceable, Republic friendly. Remaining funds distributed to local assorted, underpaid, CPA – civilian protection agencies.  
  
  
Collateral Damage: 10 local police, deceased. 5 civilians, deceased.  
0 witnesses. 

Additional information withdrawn. Will require time for collation.  
Estimate: four standard over originally allotted mission time span.

 **01:00**  
Point of interest: Account listed under anagram of contact’s maiden name is one mill richer as of 13:47 standard time.

 **02:00**  
Original supposition confirmed.

 **03:00**  
Contact sighted. Contact dispatched.  
  
Note: Future protocol revised to include multiple background checks on contact(s) and family. Prevention of mission hindrance top priority.  
  
Let’s not have another mishap like this afternoon.  
  
  
  
\- - - - -  
Save Entry?  
Confirm?  
Save Complete.  
Input Inquiry.  
Power Down Initiated.  
  
Good Bye N-7. _Go Get 'Em, Tiger_.


	2. 3am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not mad.

It fascinates him: the curve of broken waves bisected by a speeding submersible moments before it breaks surface; the blending of lights and faces into rapid, uncoordinated snapshots as he presses a land speeder’s engines to maximum output and dances between Coruscant’s traffic jammed skylanes; the spike of adrenaline and the threat of mild hypertension as gravity takes hold and sends him careening in a controlled downward spiral on collision course with uncompromising pavement, still attached by rappelling line to the side of a too-tall tower.

The little things that send Mereel’s blood pumping hard and fast as adrenaline worked its magic, tightened his lungs, and temporarily enhanced sensory perception as his short life teetered dangerously on the edge of the precipice – few can understand the thrill. But that’s not his concern, what _aruetiise_ believe.

No. Mereel isn’t mad, though other parts of his personality certainly fit the bill.

He’s better, _greater_ than _dini’la._

He lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**  
>  _aruetiise_ \- outsiders, non-mandalorians  
>  _dini'la_ \- crazy, mad, insane


	3. Drama is life with the dull bits cut out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luckily for Mereel, he was a quick study.

“Drama,” quoted a Rutian Twi’lek seated on his lap, “is life with the dull bits cut out.” And then she giggled prettily before taking another sip of her homemade fruit cocktail, one lekku swinging across her back while the other curled over Mereel’s shoulder.

At some point N-7 would have been inclined to agree, but then he was introduced to the Holonet’s Showtime “Soap Operas.” If they were what the population’s accepted definition of drama _was_ – and it certainly seemed that way, if the ratings were anything to go on – he wasn’t sure what to make of _drama._

“Is that so?” he murmured teasingly, nuzzling her cheek.

She slipped her hands inside his open bantha-hide jacket, smiling as she slowly eased the garment off his shoulders. He shrugged his arms from the sleeves and tossed it to the kitchen floor.

“Yes,” she said, overdoing the sultry purr just a touch. “And I’ve decided it’s my job to erase the dull bits tonight.”

Mereel grinned, reaching up to gently run his knuckles along the edge of one lekku. “You’re taking time out of your busy schedule for me?” He quietly reveled in the way her eyes eased closed and her head tilted back. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the junction of her neck and jaw line, feeling her pulse skip a beat under his lips. He chuckled, brushing his hands down her sides and playing with the hem of her too-tight shirt.

“Life has been _so_ very _dull_ , too,” he murmured against her heated skin.

They didn’t cover this kind of thing in basic training. But luckily for Mereel, he was a quick study.


	4. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clothes could come later.

Steam clouded the transparisteel panels of the ‘fresher. The cold tiled wall vibrated lightly under his splayed hands. Scalding hot water rolled down his back and swirled red into the drain beneath his feet.

Mereel hung his head forward and laughed.

Thick dollops of lather dripped from his currently-auburn hair, down his shoulders and over his abdomen. Everything hurt. _Everything._

The null leaned over and switched off the steady stream, stepping out of the stall and quickly padding down his body with a thin, ragged blue towel. He stretched, the cracks uttered by his spine echoing in the small room, and wrapped the strip of cloth around his waist.

A quick tap to the door controls and he was out of the mini sauna, standing naked in the empty ship with a towel over his hips and an open medkit in his left hand.

“Nothing a shower can’t fix,” said Mereel to the empty deck.

A short breath was all the preparation he allowed before he slapped a fresh bacta patch over the still-weeping, hurriedly stitched, twelve centimeter gash across his right bicep. It stung for a _long_ two seconds before the natural anesthetic kicked in, but by then he had already limped the five meters to the cockpit.

The blue streaked field of hyperspace lit up the pit with varying shades of offensively bright blue. He couldn’t help the smile as he slid into the pilot’s seat and leaned back to adjust his towel.

He’d watch for a while. Clothes? Clothes could come later.


	5. What are the five steps to a successful negotiation?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never enter a negotiation without knowing at least the basics.

Access Granted.  
Welcome back N-7, You Beyond Handsome _Shabuir_.  
Input Command.  
Searching . . .  
Compose Message?  
Draft Saved.  
Draft Saved.  
Draft Saved.  
Encrypt Data?  
Confirm?  
Sending Secure Message . . .  
\- - - - -

 

To: Y.S.J.   
Corellian Sector, Nar Shaddaa

From: Mereel

 

Funny question to ask, _dar’verd’ika._   
Before I answer, how’s the cantina doing?  
The way things are going in our Grand Republic, I wouldn’t expect a visit from your best customers for some time.

I know, you’re devastated. 

Irregardless, learn from the _jatnese be te jatnese,_ best of the best:

1\. Never enter a negotiation without knowing at least the basics. Identify the problem, know what you want, and know your opponent. Knowledge is power, the more you know the easier it becomes to manipulate the situation to your advantage.

2\. Reputation is key. Never give away too much during passive discussions. Let your opponent’s assumptions do the talking for you.

3\. Be patient. Nervous dealings and twitchy-fingers don’t merge well. And no one likes to clean up a mess that could have been prevented. But that being said . . .

4\. The threat of violence can often be just as effective as violence itself. Unless the situation calls for it, however, try to avoid killing. I’ve found that excessive force can bring the negotiations to a stand still. At the other end of that spectrum, most beings will deal straight if the threat of imminent dismemberment hangs over their heads. Funny times we live in.

5\. Know your walk-away point. The galaxy is a big place. If you’re feeling the deal may fall through, walk. The sight of a retreating back is usually enough to crack the other party. If not, there’s always someone out there with a better offer and a bigger haul.  
  


My brothers may disagree, but I’ve found these steps to work just fine for most situations. Feel free to improvise. After all, you have womanly parts. You already have an advantage. Don’t be squeamish. You could even practice on me sometime. Ha ha.

 

\- - - - -  
Save Message?  
Save Aborted.  
Input Search Inquiry.  
Delete?  
Confirm?  
Draft Deleted.  
Draft Deleted.  
Draft Deleted.  
Input Inquiry.  
Confirm?  
Power Down Initiated.

Good Bye, N-7. Go Get 'Em, Ladies' Man.


	6. Talk about politics.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money, greed, power. To him it sounded like the generic mantra for all forms of government – and the people running them. But he knew better than to say that out loud.

The elevated holoscreen situated above Null-7’s head broadcasted HNE’s latest bulletin on the war. No one in the crowded tapcaf seemed to notice, aside from the Null and his recently acquired drinking companion. Now, Mereel wasn’t as big a fan of liquor as the Rodian jet-juicer beside him, but that didn’t seem to bother the drunk, as long as the alcohol kept flowing.

 _“Stuka ka poodoo,”_ grumbled the Rodian, waving a sucker-tipped finger at the holoscreen. _“Huch, huch, huch! Chone dopa-maskey_ committee _tio pe cushi'cushi, settah pe_ committee _. Koochoo.”_

 _Two-faced committee, indeed._ Mereel rapped his knuckles against the grimy counter and signaled to the bartender for another round of drinks. “Democracy’s nothing without a committee,” he noted absently as he eyed the… _well endowed_ waitress leaning between them. She flicked her chocolate curls over her shoulder, picked up a meal of questionable origin, and studiously avoided his gaze as she ferried the tray off into the crowd.

 _“Ka na ki vo?”_ The Rodian slurred. _“Nek jor pawa bato kirim nudcha. Bunky Dunko nira. Von'bargon che? Pawa nowan che? Nopa buti che.”_ He pointed a wobbling hand to the holoscreen and formed a gesture that, while unfamiliar, Mereel assumed as offensive.

The Null, previously distracted by the waitress who actively ignored him, turned towards the Rodian and decided to push the subject. “The working man always suffers,” he grumbled in feigned agitation between sips of watered down jawa juice. “And the committee never has to worry.”

 _“Tagwa!”_ crowed the Rodian and slammed his empty glass onto the counter. _“Moulee-rah. Naga'pich. Pawa'nowa. Publiko cha.”_

Money, greed, power. To him it sounded like the generic mantra for all forms of government _–_ and the people running them. But he knew better than to say _that_ out loud.

“Surely if the Conferderacy wants to secede, they should. What right does the _committee_ have to force them to stay?” Mereel sneered instead.

The offhand comment bordered on treason, but in truth, N-7 didn’t have much of an opinion either way. The war was what it was: an ongoing fight between two angry governments using an army separate from its citizens, stretched thin and to a standstill across too many systems. No amount of arguing over a decrepit bar with a warm bottle of ale, or shouting amongst a senate, or reporting facts to the Jedi in charge, could change that. Time and again his brothers suggested a change of tactics to General Zey, only for word to be shot down by the Supreme Chancellor and his bid for _improving public relations._

He did not envy the General his job. Everything was so much simpler with an objective, a plan, a planet, and _his_ resources on the _Republic’s_ budget. Mereel liked simple.

He also liked the occasional eye candy – females with varying shades of hair, eye, and skin color. Sometimes minus the hair.

 _“Tch. Uba changa! Fierfek slimo Publiko!”_ choked the Rodian. And then he fell off his stool.  
 

 

The brisk air of the world-outside-the-cantina woke Mereel from whatever buzz the small bit of alcohol had on him. He shifted his grip around the Rodian’s shoulders as they shuffled down the small side streets, navigating by old-fashioned street lights and the pale purple sky. The occasional speeder blasted by overhead, cutting the silence only briefly with noisy engines before disappearing down a corner and out of sight.

“So, friend, what was it that you do?”

 _“Nibo'pirka,”_ he slurred, and motioned to the government buildings around them. _“Jee kur'bato lapti bunky dunko committee winkee noleeya.”_

Mereel paused as he hauled his friend home. “An architect?” Already his mission took a turn to his advantage, and he hadn’t even finished his recce of the location.

“Wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DATAPAD ENTRY: HUTTESE CHE KOOCHOO – HUTTESE FOR IDIOTS**  
>  Authorization Code Accepted.  
> Access Granted.  
> Welcome Back N-7, You Sexy _Chakaar,_ You.
> 
>  _Stuka ka poodoo._  
>  Look this poodoo.
> 
>  _Huch, huch, huch! Chone dopa-maskey committee tio pe cushi'cushi, settah pe committee. Koochoo._  
>  Numbers, numbers, numbers! And two-faced committee sit on cushy cushions yelling at committee. Idiots.
> 
>  _Ka na ki vo? Nek jor pawa bato kirim nudcha. Bunky dunko nira. Von'bargon che? Pawa nowan che? Nopa buti che._  
>  This is what it is? Man with power make stupid war. Homes burn. Resources for? Power more for? Not us (people) for.
> 
>  _Tagwa! Moulee-rah. Naga'pich. Pawa'nowa. Publiko cha._  
>  Exactly! Money. Greed. Power. Republic is.
> 
>  _Tch. Uba changa. Fierfek slimo Publiko._  
>  Tch. You right. Curse slimy Republic.
> 
>  _Nibo'pirka. Jee kur'bato lapti bunky dunko committee winkee noleeya._  
>  Contract builder. I designed fancy homes committee sleep in.


	7. Ten Cryptic Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cryptic, for reasons.

  1. I’ve got bad news…
  2. No. The Bantha got to him first.
  3. You have one hour.
  4. They don’t match batch standards.
  5. She ate a round, and still managed to smile.
  6. I lied.
  7. They didn’t agree, either.
  8. He didn’t keep his end of the bargain, so we kept ours.
  9. We must make it clear that the current contracts terminate in two years.
  10. They changed it. They changed it all.




	8. Write page 57 of your 300 page autobiography.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Page 57.

couldn’t get my shirt over my head, so I flick my wrist. A _shuh-shunk_ precedes the ejection of my concealed vibroblade. The handle feels oddly warm in my hand – the things you notice – and I cut away the fabric.

— _Fierfek._ Good job, Mer’ika.

Two staples missing from the fifteen centimeter gash above my left hip, the edge of the wound strains open and bleeds freely. I dump the contents of my medpack into the sink, tear open a new bacta patch, and slap it on. It’d hold for another few hours, unless I run into another Gamorrean pig who’s taken a disliking to my torso.

I wrap a quick bandage over the patch for added insurance, throw on a bantha-hide vest, and that’s all the time I have.

The medpack’s left in the sink, minus two patches, a bacta spray, and stims. I’m careful to step over the pools over multicolored blood seeping into the carpet. My Merr-Sonn Blaster’s lying by the shattered skull remains of one very uncooperative Duros.

I could get it. I could.

The blubbery mountain of a Gamorrean is in my way. Death did not make the _chakaar_ smell any better.

The timepiece on my left wrist beeps twice.

 _Now_ that’s all the time I have.

— _Re’turcye mhi, Tor’ika._

The blaster has to stay.

I leave the front door open – it’s not my place anyway. Someone will notice the blood stained carpets. And if they don’t, they’ll notice the dead Gamorrean in half a day or less.

I’ve got to get out of here.

The hall’s empty, but the duracrete echoes and it’s 03:42 standard. I step over a snoring mound of unwashed Twi’lek and jam my fist against the controls to summon a turbolift. Voices reverberate in the hall behind me. They’re speaking Huttese, I think. But I can’t be sure, and it doesn’t matter.

I ease back on my heels, feigning calm as I wait impatiently for the lift. My arm stiffens in case I have to snap my blade out from its hidden compartment and deal with the _authorities_ a bit earlier than planned. Pain spikes through my midsection with every breath. I’ll need to send an encrypted message ahead of schedule. There better be a bacta tank with my name on it back at base.

A gasp cuts the silence. It takes half a second to realize it wasn’t me. The following angry, guttural noises are definitely not me. The distinct odor of one very alive Weequay wafts my way just as the lift doors cycle open. The homeless Twi’lek starts up a commotion as I step on.

—Out of way, _koochu!_  
— _Chuba!_ You! You step on? I no floor mat!

It’s a distraction in my favor. If he lives maybe I’ll wire him enough creds for another round of jawa juice. But for now I rap my fist against the controls. I tap the buttons a little harder.

Time to go. Let’s go. Any floor. Let’s go.

The plasteel beside my head shatters from blaster fire. I duck to the side. The doors slide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**  
>  _fierfek_ \- huttese expletive, poison  
>  _re'turcye mhi, Tor'ika_ \- good bye, little Tor (weapon name)  
>  _koochu_ \- huttese expletive, idiot  
>  _chuba_ \- Hey you!


	9. Innuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver tongue and word play.

He knows what the word is about him in his little band of ~~miscreants~~ family. And the rumors are true, mostly. (Except the one about the Mon Calamari, because swinger that he ~~may be~~ is, he’s not quite _that_ adventurous.)

Mereel doesn’t make excuses for his behavior – not that he believes there’s anything _wrong_ with utilizing his well-developed, charming personality and dashingly handsome good looks. But chiseled abs can only get you so far with the ladies.

(Of course, Zeltron females are another matter entirely. Zeltrons and Falleens, because _talented hands_ and a _nice mouth_ can’t quite break pheromone induced mind control. And he doesn’t have the time, or the energy, to put up with that _osik_ any day.)

No. Mereel’s mastery, as he is _so_ well known for, lies with innuendo and _fantastic_ timing.  (And has he mentioned he keeps his guns _well oiled –_ because he’s _always_ prepared for a little _excitement._ )

Word games, essentially. They keep him sharp, keep him focused, and _maybe_ they temporarily distract him from the ~~rage~~ stress buildup of watching his brothers die by the dozens on the Holonet everywhere he goes.

So when the occasional Twi'lek invites him over to help _hook up some power couplings…_ well. That’s just a _happy coincidence._


	10. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanctuary is no place, people, nor thing.

Access Granted.  
Welcome Back N-7, _U Kulle Rah Doe Kankee Kung._  
Input Search Inquiry.  
Searching . . .  
Personal Journal Entry Found.  
Modify?  
Input Authorization Access Code.  
Confirm?  
Modification Granted.  
\- - - - -

 

Sanctuary. The word has a kind of ring to it. A positive connotation, like an unspoken promise that no matter what comes, sanctuary will remain what it is. A shelter. A place of total, complete, immovable security.

Let's just say, in my line of work, it's obvious such a thing can never be guaranteed. And let's not dance around the issue here - because I'd much prefer to get this out in the open, now.

 _Sanctuary_ is an illusion. In the strictest physical sense of the word. You could be sitting in anywhere from the lowest level bunker to a private untraceable ship equipped with full-proof transponder codes. Maybe even strolling down the well kept gardens of a Jedi Temple.

One minute, everything is peace. Silence. Safe. The indigenous wildlife are singing. Younglings are laughing. Someone’s walking their domesticated hound and chatting up the local _prime piffer_ and her miniature strill with two less legs.

Or in your ship's case, your droids are beeping up a storm with the system because the hyperdrive is just a little touchy and the navs are a bit glitchy and the blue is way more hypnotizing than you expected.

Then before you know it - before you take another breath or blink or twitch or sip daintily from your cup of ansionian tea - everything is _gone._ Blasted to kriffing bits before you can finish lunch. _Osik_ hits the fan. And chances are you won't recall what the feeling of bliss was like, only the feeling immediately following the disruption - the knowledge that you're _still_ alive, _feel_ alive, and sanctuary has been crushed.

And that’s if you’re _jate’karala._ Most don’t wake up the first time, and if they _do_ they probably don’t get up and haul jets before the second round hits. The enemy likes to make sure they don’t miss.

So as you can tell, I don't lay much... _faith_ in these things.

But along the terms of what my fellow jet-juicer companions across many systems seem to echo, sanctuary manifests figuratively. And I agree with them. Though I seek my temporary sanctums outside of chem-laced Jawa Juice and the occasional off balance cigarra.

Searching for a place of peace - one that you can touch with your hands and see with your eyes - is a falsity. Sanctuary can be made, a construct from your mind.

'Course, I'm not worried. I’ve got enough mind to go around.

 

\- - - - -  
Save Entry?  
Confirm?  
Save Complete.  
Input Inquiry.  
Power Down Initiated.  
Good Bye N-7. Stay Smooth As The Surface Of A Neutron Star.


	11. Awesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mereel cheats at cards while the racer tells his story.

—I once blew a power coupling midway through a swoop race.  
—No!  
— _Fierfek_ , mate. Serious?  
—Yes. ‘m not lyin. You can’t make this _poodoo_ up.  
—Ha, _right!_ I saw somethin’ like that on a holodrama.  
—Look, you coupl’o _kungs._ You want to hear the story or not?

Mereel snorts into his drink and waves a busty Nautolan waitress over. He discards two cards from his hand and draws three fresh ones from the pile.

—Another round. I’m goin’ to need it.

The Rodian beside him puckers his sucker lips to blow a raspberry, clearly unconvinced, and downs the rest of his towering mug of ale. Yet their combined disbelief does nothing to dissuade the green skinned Mirialan ex-racer.

—So we’re down the last stretch, Nar Shaddaa’s Corellian Sector blocking out the sky, and I gun my engine. Swoop’s lasted an hour, five consecutive runs without break and I figure I feed the slackers my exhaust fumes.

The Mirialan takes a drag from his expensive, brand-name cigarra.

—Mistake, yeah? One explosive _bang_ later and I’ve got smoke in my viewport, _and_ in my lungs.

Mereel barks a laugh and tosses two credits into the betting pot.

—Already got smoke in your lungs, _burc’ya._

The Rodian joins in the laughing and checks the bet while the Mirialan grins around his smoke-stick. He draws two cards from the deck, cigarra sliding from one corner of his mouth to the other.

—Tattooine’s red sky, my luck’s left me tonight.  
—But not when your swoop blew?  
— _Frack_ yes. Let me finish the blasted story.  
—Hey, hey. Your bet, _choobie._

The Mirialan racer takes a swig from his unlabeled bottle and tosses two credits in the growing pile.

—All right. So as I was sayin’. Smoke up in my everywhere and fire lickin’ my windshield. So I jam down the manual brake, reroute the fuel line and cut the oxygen filter. Flames go out and I’m losing speed. Got a fool catching up, so I whip out a cryo charge and toss one off the side.

The Rodian draws four cards and slams down a handful of low denomination credits, rattling the table.

—Impossible! That’s not legal!

Mereel grins, rearranging his cards inconspicuously.

—Few things are _legal_ in Nar Shaddaa.  
—Man’s right, Rodian! Now left me finish, before you pop an eye in hysterics. As I was.  
— _Pop an eye?_ I am _not_ hysteric!

The Mirialan grins and extinguishes his cigarra in a small tray set aside the Sabacc game.

—Look, mate. In a Nar Shaddaa swoop race, anythin’ goes. _So,_ finish line’s in plain view and rear sight says direct _fierfekla_ hit on the second up, so I’m home free right? _Wrong!_

He slams a fist to the table hard enough to cause the pile of credits in the center to take temporary flight.

—I’m twenty meters off from Grand Prize when _PING_ _!_ I don’t recognize the sound, so I don’t check it, what with the winnings so close any way. And then, red lights flash across the dashboard before _disaster._  
—Disaster?  
—Don’t listen to him! ‘S gonna end this story in first place with double the prize and two pretty _piffers._  
—Didn’t I say my luck left me? Didn’t I say.

The Mirialan points a menacing, tattooed finger at the Rodian across the mound of credits. Mereel lounges lazily, balancing his chair on its back two legs.

—So what hit you?

The table shines orange as the ex-racer lights up a new cigarra.

—A Mynock. Frozen.

Mereel gapes, nearly dropping his cards and himself from the chair.

—What? A _what?_ _Mynock?_  
—Frozen.  
—I don’t believe it!  
—Oh, it gets worse, my angry Rodian friend.  
—You lie!  
—I don’t see how a frozen Mynock can get worse.  
— _Right up the tail pipe!_

The Mirialan slides his open palm over the table and straight up into the air.

—The warning light flashes _once_ and then the tail end of my swoop _blasts off._ I take a nosedive and fall in an uncontrollable sidespin.  
—Sweet mother of chaos.  
— _Shab._  
—That’s what I said.

The Mirialan discards two cards and picks up three fresh from the dwindling deck. He frowns, blows a long cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth, and tosses a credit in the pot.

—So I hit the eject button, but the damn thing’s _stuck._

Mereel tosses two and draws a single card. At the look of his new hand his jaw twitches, but he resumes his ridiculously comfortable position after tossing two low denomination cards in the pot.

—Sure meets the requirements of disaster, _burc’ya._  
—Why aren’t you a dead _sleemo,_ then?  
—Maybe because some god out there wants me to suffer your inane questions, _echuta._  
—You’re a son of a bantha.  
—And your mother’s a Sith Harlot.

Mereel can’t help but grin at their argument as the next round of drinks finally arrive. He plucks a chip from the pot and offers it to the waitress with a wink. The Nautolan blushes a deep green and quickly flees from the table.

The Rodian draws the last card, crows, and slams his cards down.

—Twenty-Three! Read ‘em and weep, fellas.

The Mirialan curses and tosses his cards over the chips in frustration.

Mereel’s grin widens and he stands abruptly from his chair, slapping the Rodian’s hands away from the pot as he smacks down his own cards.

—Idiot’s Array. Trumps the two-three.  
— _Slatt!_ You’re a damn cheater!  
—Space it, ‘m not playin’ with you ever again, 'reel.

With a shrug and a self-satisfied smirk Mereel adds 726 credits to his wallet.

The ex-racer spits out his half burned cigarra and chugs his fresh bottle of Novanian grog. The base of the bottle clicks against the Sabacc table and the ex-racer let's out belch before sitting up in his chair. He waves his hand vaguely by his head with a heavy sigh.

—I landed in a pillow shop.

The Rodian sputters, ale spattering the table and cards.

—You... _You what?_

Thankful of the gloves shielding his hands from Rodian germs, Mereel sweeps up the cards to shuffle the deck, laughing and shaking his head.

— _…kandosii._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**  
>  _fierfek_ \- huttese expletive, poison  
>  _poodoo_ \- huttese expletive  
>  _kung_ \- scum, scumbag  
>  _burc'ya_ \- friend  
>  _frack_ \- expletive  
>  _choobie_ \- vulgar term for one's behind  
>  _piffer_ \- slang for an attractive woman  
>  _shab_ \- mando'a expletive  
>  _sleemo_ \- slimeball  
>  _slatt_ \- expletive  
>  _kandosii_ \- awesome, nice, (lit.) classy


End file.
